We've starting giving them insect treats. They go absolutely nuts over moths, not to mention mealworms. You want a frenzy in a box full of chicks, chuck in a few bugs!
We took their entire box out to the driveway. It took them a while to summon up the courage to move away from the box. They didn't stray far, but they did relax and have fun.
The adorable fluff-factor remains high on those chick butts.
The proud chick-daddy watches over his flock, guarding them from predators like hawks, weasels, Chef Nick and Happy Wombat Boy.
"Hi little chicky. I come in peace."
Yes, the chickens make me deliriously happy. No, I am not going to EAT THEM.
Pooped after a hard hour's scratching and pecking in the exercise yard. Back to the slammer with you, Buttercup!
Our friends' four kids got to name eight of the chicks (not that we can tell the chicks apart yet.) So far we've got Buttercup and Charlotte (courtesy of the 9 year-old girl), Duck and Goose (courtesy of the ironic ten-year-old boy), Yolkie and Ellie (thank you, 12-year-old girl!) and Chicky and Cupcake (compliments of the 5 year-old girl.) That leaves five to be named. Gordon is working on his choices. I'm going with Amy Elizabeth in honour of a chicken-lovin' e-friend. We'll see what else we end up with. No, Chef Nick and Happy Wombat Boy. We will not end up with Grilled, Scrambled, Roasted, Fried, and Teriyaki. NO.